I'm Sorry
by thegirlwhowondered
Summary: During a case - that just for the record, he never wanted to take on anyway - John falls ill; and a guilt-ridden Sherlock does everything he can to make amends.


**Summary:** During a case - that just for the record, he never wanted to take on anyway - John falls ill; and a guilt-ridden Sherlock does everything he can to make amends.

**In celebration of: **I wrote this little ficlet because I just started watching Sherlock woohoo! And I love it! I am thoroughly SHERLOCKED. I've zipped through most of it, but I haven't watched the last episode yet. Why? Well, I'm a little scared of the feels tbh, haha.

**Pairing: **Well, none specifically, but I like to think there's some Johnlock here somewhere ;)

**A/N: **Thanks to JAL for pointing out the spacing issue, I have fixed that so it reads better :D

**Enjoy!**

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"...and as for the stain on his sleeve, it initially pointed to gardener but it was actually an indication of his drug trafficking all along because-John, are you listening?" Sherlock lowered the morning paper from in front of his face and looked around the room.

The consulting detective's flat mate was nowhere to be seen. Come to think of it, Sherlock couldn't recall seeing John come out of his room all morning. (Which meant that Sherlock had just been talking to himself for a full hour, but let's not focus on that.) After folding up the paper and setting it down, Sherlock got to his feet and padded over to John's room, shoving the door open a few inches.

Normally, the two had a simple agreement: bedrooms were off limits. But Sherlock had never really listened to the rules anyway. He slipped into John's bedroom to find the good doctor huddled up in a ball under his duvet, coughing and shivering.

Sherlock stood by John's bed and patted his shoulder. "Let me see...pale skin, shivering, sweating, coughing, and generally looking like hell. You're sick, aren't you?"

John gazed up at Sherlock from behind hooded lids. "Well, you should know, it is your fault."

"My fault?" Sherlock took a step back. "How's it my fault?"

"You were the one who made me stand out in the pouring rain for two straight hours yesterday."

Sherlock's jaw dropped open. "Ah."

The day before, the two of them had been chasing a young man who Sherlock suspected to be the criminal behind a series of murders involving duct tape and shoelaces, but his intricate plan for capture involved putting John on surveillance for "as long as it takes for him to slip up". The problem; it was pouring rain, and standing in a soaking wet alleyway, spying on some kid while it buckets down around him was the last thing on John's to-do list. He would have much preferred to sit at home and watch bad daytime telly, with all the comfort of his own blanket, but oh no, Sherlock wouldn't have it.

"Oh, now he catches on. I told you that the plan wouldn't work out right, didn't it?"

Sherlock raised his chin indignantly. "My plan worked perfectly. We caught him, didn't we?"

"Perfectly. Sure." John muffled his next coughing fit in his pillow, before closing his eyes and groaning. "Hey, get the curtains, would you? It's much too bright out."

By the time Sherlock completed the task, John was fast asleep once more. A pang of guilt shot through the detective's normally indifferent heart. He could be thoughtless sometimes, everyone knew that. In fact, they frequently sought to remind him. But the last thing he ever wanted was any kind of hardship to come to his best - well, only - friend; especially if he was the one causing it.

Sherlock wasn't used to feeling guilt, and he rather hated the emotion. It was sickening and gave him a stomach ache. He decided that for his sake and John's, he had to make this up to him.

Wheeling around, Sherlock set about bringing everything John might need to him while he was asleep. John had wanted to watch bad telly, right? So the first thing Sherlock dragged in was the entire television set, including three separate remotes (he wasn't sure which one worked - after all, they were all the same brand, and Sherlock never really watched TV.)

An hour after falling into a fitful sleep, John slowly opened his eyes to find half the flat stashed into his room. Magazines, games, books; since when was his bedroom a storage shed? What the hell was Sherlock doing?

And then John's eyes fell on something on his bedside table. A mug of tea, still warm. John sat up and took a sip, before making a face. Sherlock had definitely made it. It was white with no sugar - just how John liked it - and yet only Sherlock could make such a perfect cup of tea taste so horribly bitter.

There was only one time Sherlock ever made tea for anyone. It was only for John, and only when he felt the need to apologise. Which, lets face it, was a rare occurrence; but when it happened, John found that he could never stay mad.

"You could always just say it you know," John remarked as Sherlock entered the room with yet another massive stack of books.

"Say what?" Sherlock asked, dumping the pile on the floor with a graceless thud.

"That you're sorry." John shrugged.

"That I'm-what?" Sherlock spluttered. "I am nothing of the sort! I was simply doing my job."

"Yeah," John agreed. "I'm sure that's exactly why you made me tea."

For once in his life, Sherlock was at a loss for words. After trying - and failing - to come up with another explanation, the detective plonked down on the edge of his friend's bed and sighed. "Alright, fine. I should have been a little more considerate of you yesterday. I shouldn't have made you stand out in the rain, I'm-sorry, John."

"Well, you shouldn't be."

Sherlock's head snapped up in surprise. "But I-"

"Was simply doing your job," John finished. "You didn't make me do anything. I could have left at any time, but I didn't."

"Oh." This seemed to make Sherlock very happy indeed. That was a whole weight off his shoulders. "Alright then. In that case, feel better soon, John." He patted John on the knee and headed out of the room. "I have a bi polar squirrel to investigate, so let Mrs. Hudson know that I might not be home for tea." And with those words, he was gone.

"Wait-Sherlock! What about all this mess?" John called, but his flatmate was long out of earshot by then. He lay back against his pillow and looked around the room, laughing to himself. John would have one hell of a mess to clean up; but that could wait until he felt better. For now, he had a bitter cup of tea and a nice, quiet day in bed to enjoy.


End file.
